we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and the most of it is steady climbing. We shall not reach the Dome until three o'clock at earliest." "And shall we have nothing to eat until then?" asks Rupert, dismayed. "Nothing," is the disheartening answer. "What a big mountain this must be!" says Mrs. Cardigan. "It is about twenty miles long," answers Eric, "and contains at least a hundred thousand acres of as dense wilderness as is to be found out of the tropical belt. When we reach Mount Mitchell we shall be in the centre of a region of unbroken forest, without house or road in any direction-except this path and a few trails known only to the hunters-for a radius of ten or twelve miles." Higher and higher we mount-the horses straining steadily upward with few pauses. The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant, with every step. When we wonder at this, Eric bids us observe the rich, black loam which composes the soil. Such gigantic trees as grow here cannot be matched, I am sure, out of California. The chestnuts, especially, exceed in girth and height any thing we have ever seen. Other trees correspond in size, and the dense undergrowth makes a sea of impenetrable verdure in every direction. Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings changes. We leave this varied forest behind, and enter the region of the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name. Above a certain line of clevation no trees are found save these beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height, and stand so thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to be found hereonly beds of thick, elastic moss, richer than the richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. Putting aside every thing else, it is worth ascending the Black Mountain to see these mosses and ferns. Description can give no idea of their beauty. As lovely ferns may perhaps be found elsewhere-though this is doubtful, since the rich soil, the perpetual moisture, and perpetual shade, foster their growth to the highest possible degree -but one never sees out of the balsam-forests the peculiar moss which is their glory. It is almost rank in its richness; it is more vivid than emerald in its greenness; and there is a delicate grace about it which no other moss possesses. It is more like a fairy forest of miniature palm-leaves than any thing else to which we can liken it. "What is this?" we ask, as our horses struggle one by one up a steep ascent, and pause on a small plateau, where a double house of balsam-logs stands. All planking, every thing which made the house habitable, is gone, but the stout logs remain firmly fixed together, and look as if they might defy the hand of Time. "Are we on the summit?" "On the summit!" Eric laughs. "This Looking at the matter in that light, all hunting is cowardly," says Eric. "But if the bear had been stealing your hogs for sev eral months you would probably be willing to shoot him when you found him in a trap. We turn-so dense has been the forest through which we ascended that this is our first glimpse of what we have gained-and see the world unrolled like a map below us, with mountain-ranges in azure billows spreading to the farthest verge of the infinitely dis--Lead on, Dan. I am growing-to put it tant horizon. It is a picture which almost moderately-rather hungry." takes away our breath, and dwarfs into insignificance all else that we have seen. What are the hills and rocks on which we have hitherto stood to this grand mountain-height, with the boundless territory which it overlooks? Eric points out the sweeping lines of the two great ranges which inclose on each side this Eden of the sky, as they trend southward to South Carolina and Georgia, and the innumerable transverse ranges and spurs that cover the face of the country. Far, misty, ocean-like, the magnificent expanse spreads, looking like a celestial country instead of a common work-day world. We could linger here for hours, but are imperatively hurried on. Again we plunge into the dark shade of the dense balsams. The path is no more than a trail, which an eye inexperienced in woodcraft could not detect, and the way grows more and more steep. One moment the horses slip on the rocks up which they clamber; the next instant they sink above their fetlocks in black mud; there is barely room for their passage through the close-growing trees; and every few minutes a cry runs along the line, "Look out for your heads!" and we bend down on their necks to escape being scraped off by some leaning tree or low bough. In every direction stretches the sombre, impenetrable forest, and the only things which break the monotony of its gloom are masses of rock piled together in strange, fantastic shapes, and covered with moss and ferns. Two miles of this steep climbing brings us to the summit of the undulating ridge along which our way lies for several miles farther. The funereal branches of the balsam still overshadow us, but now and then we emerge from this canopy of shade into small, open spaces, lovely enough for a fairy court. Short, green grass flourishes, one or two graceful, hardy trees make a pleasant contrast to the sombre firs, and flat rocks here and there seem provided specially for seats. We would willingly pause in these charming spots, but our guide calls no halt. He seems insensible to fatigue as he presses steadily onward with his long strides, and we are forced to follow, since this mountain wilderness, abounding in precipices and pitfalls, would be an unfavorable place in which to indulge a fancy for straggling. Twice he points out bear-tracks crossing our path, and once he turns aside from the path to show Sylvia the promised bear-trap-a stout erection of large logs. "When you find a bear in a place like this," she says, regarding it gravely from the height of her mule, "what do you do to him?" Dau leads on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which rise in conical shape before us. We pause, attracted not only by the gentle loveliness of the spot, but by the magnificence of the farstretching view. Immediately in front of us sweeps westwardly the great range of Craggy, its spurs shutting off Asheville from our view. Beyond, Pisgah lifts its crest, with its surrounding mountains, while behind these range after range melts into illimitable distance, and more than half the counties of the western part of the State lie spread before us. Eric takes his cherished companion-a large field-glass-from its case, and brings it to a proper focus, then he hands it to me. "Look," he says, "at that cloud-like ta ble-land lying near the South Carolina linedo you see what I mean? That is the upper valley of the French Broad in Transylvania, and it is nearly on a level with the summit of the Blue Ridge." The glass passes from hand to hand, for we all alight here, since the rest of the ascent can best be made on foot. The saddles are taken from the horses, and they are turned loose to graze until morning. Suppose they should run away?" sug gests Mr. Lanier, a little aghast at this proceeding; but our guide only laughs. "They'll not run fur," he says. "If they did, we should have to walk down the mountain,' "That says Sylvia. would be capital fun!" "Fun which I had rather be spared," says Mrs. Cardigan, taking off her water-proof, which has served as a riding-skirt, and throw. ing it over her arm. Only the pack-horse is led to the summit of the peak. We follow, glad to be spared the ascent of the steep and rocky way on horseback. The climbing is laborious, but fortunately short. Before long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest is a grave. It was a strange fancy which gave to Professor Mitchell, who lost his life on this mountain, so wild and isolated a resting place! Yet the reason is evident enough In the warmth of personal friendship, men wished to link his name with this loftiest peak of the Appalachian heights; and they have done so effectually. The dome is not likely to be called by any other name tha "Mount Mitchell" so long as the first sight which greets those who ascend it is Mitchell's grave. Beside the grave, the summit is entirely bare. A few yards down its sides the balsam-growth begins; but the firs are stunted, and round the crest of the knob half at least of them are dead and look like white spectres of trees. A small cabin stood here a year or two ago, but is now burned downonly its chimney remaining. "Where is the cave? I don't see any cave," says Mrs. Cardigan, looking blankly round as we seat ourselves in an exhausted condition on the scattered rocks that abound. "The cave is about fifty yards down the side of the peak," says Eric. "Burnet has taken the pack-horse there to unload. As soon as you are rested sufficiently, we had better follow. We can take dinner, and then return here for the view." Does any one wonder that we rise with alacrity at the sound of that magic word "dinner? " If so, he or she never made a mountain-ascent of six hours in an atmosphere that sharpens the appetite to that positive hunger which in ordinary life we so seldom feel. Down a path on the other side of the peak we go, and, about fifty yards from the summit, are led to a large rock, one side of which shelves inward to the depth of ten or twelve feet, forming an excellent shelter. "This was the royal residence of the king of the bears in the good old times when there were no men on these mountains," says Rupert, as we approach. (He was on his knees, assisting Harrison to unpack the provisions.) "It serves admirably for bears, but is rather low for people." "For giants like yourself, very likely," ays Sylvia. "I can stand upright in it, quite far back, very comfortably-see!" "And when one sits down it is admirale," says Mrs. Cardigan, suiting the action o the word, and sitting down on a shawl which Mr. Lanier has spread for her. "Here is a natural cupboard," I say, ex piece of black oil-cloth-and dinner begins. How hungry we are! how well the food tastes, and what a quantity of it we devour! For some time no other remarks are heard than those which are strictly necessary. Requests are made for bread-and-butter, for another piece of ham or chicken, for pickles or sardines; beyond this, little is said until we look at each other and laugh. By this time the feast is drawing to its close. Canned fruits, cakes, and jelly, are on the table; Charley is opening a bottle of wine. "Fate cannot harm us, we have dined today," says Sylvia. "Oh, were you ever so hungry before? I only hope we have left enough for breakfast: we cannot af ford to eat any supper." "Can't we?" says Rupert, looking disınayed. "Why, I think there's a plenty left. We'll have some coffee, at any rate. As soon as Burnet comes back-he has taken the pack-horse down to the others-we are going to make a fire." "If the wind should be in the wrong direction, we shall suffer dreadfully from the smoke," says Mr. Lanier, look ing at the great pile of can't refuse you the privilege which we are willing to grant the others." At this, cigars are lighted, and, when the bottle of wine has been emptied, we take our way back to the summit. There the full glory of all that we have come to see bursts upon us. How can one write of it?-how give the faintest idea of the beauty which lies below us on this Sep "Sylvia mounts the chimney, and stands there." charred logs immediately in front of our rockhouse-remnants of the fire of some other party. "Better suffer from smoke than from cold," says Eric. "You'll be glad of the fire when night falls; and, in order that you may have it, we must go to work and cut wood enough to last till morning." "Cut wood!" repeats Mr. Lanier, with a gasp. He has plainly not anticipated any thing like this. "You mean that Harrison and the guide will cut it?" "I mean that it will require several axes to cut as much as we shall need," answers Eric. "The balsam-wood will not burn in small quantities." Mr. Lanier does not volunteer to take one of these axes; he looks, on the contrary, greatly disgusted. tember day?-how describe the sublimated fairness of the day itself in the rarefied air of this high peak? "I have never obtained so good a view before!" says Eric. "There are not a dozen days in the year when one can obtain such a view from this mountain." "What delightful luck that we should have hit one of the dozen!" says Mrs. Cardigan. "Don't you feel as if you overlooked the whole world, and the kingdoms thereof? O Mr. Markham, dear Mr. Markham, tell us what every thing is!" Dear Mr. Markham proceeds to comply with this moderate request, while Sylvia mounts the chimney, and stands there-fieldglass in hand-sweeping the horizon, as he indicates one object after another. Charley sits on the chimney at her feet, swinging his "And you call this a pleasure - excur- legs meditatively and smoking; Mrs. Cardision? "" be says. gan, in her enthusiasm, takes Mr. Lanier's "A pleasure exertion it might better be defined-don't you think so?" asks Mrs. Cardigan, laughing. "I wondered why you were bringing axes along," says Sylvia, turning to Charley; "and this is what it was for?" "This is what it was for," he answers. "Now-since we are in a gypsy camp-may I ask leave to light a cigar? 'When Juno ruffles thee, O Jupiter, try the weed-and, according to my experience, Juno is pretty sure to ruffle one sooner or later; therefore, it is well to be provided with a weed." "After that, you don't deserve permission to light it," she says, "but I suppose we arm. The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections. Far to the northeast lies Virginia, from which the long waving line of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making a point of junction, near which it towers into the steep Pinnacle and stately Graybeard-so called from the white beard which it wears when a frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence we overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below spreading into azure distance, with white spots which resolve themselves through the glass into villages, and mountains clearly de fined. The Linville range-through which the Linville River forces its way in a gorge of wonderful grandeur-is in full view, with a misty cloud lying on the surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar form of the Hawk's Bill stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue and limitless as the ocean, the undulating plain of the more level country extends until it melts into the sky. As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue Ridge, follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate the magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest appear a succession of cone-like peaks, while, as it sweeps round westwardly, it divides into two great branches-one of which terminates in the height on which we stand, numerous spurs leading off from its base, while the other stretches southward, forming the splendid chain of Craggy. At our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and Mitchell, with their surface so uniformly mountainous that one wonders how men could have been daring enough to think of making their homes amid such wild scenes. "The richest lands in the mountains are to be found in those counties," says Eric, when we remark something like this: "Look at the farms-they scarcely seem more than gardens from our point of viewdotted all over the valleys and rolling tablelands, and even on the mountain-sides. Yet Burnswille, the county-seat, is six hundred feet higher than Asheville." Beyond these counties stretches the chain of the Unaka, running along the line of Tennessee, with the Roan Mountain-famous for its extensive view over seven States-immediately in our front. Through the passes and rugged chasms of this range, we look across the entire valley of East Tennessee to where the blue outlines of the Cumberland Mountains trend toward Kentucky, and we see distinctly a marked depression which Eric says is Cumberland Gap. Turning our gaze due westward, the view is, if possible, still more grand. There the colossal masses of the Great Smoky stand, draped in a mantle of clouds, while through Haywood and Transylvania, to the borders of South Carolina, rise the peaks of the Balsam Mountains, bebind which are the Cullowhee and the Nantabala, with the Blue Ridge making a majestic curve toward the point where Georgia touches the Carolinas. "To understand how much you see," says Eric-" for such a view is bewildering in its magnitude - you must remember that this elevated country called Western North Carolina is two hundred and fifty miles long, with a breadth varying from thirty to sixty miles, and that you overlook all this-with much more besides." "With very much more besides," says Charley, "especially in the matter of width. Cumberland Gap is fully a hundred miles away, and the view on the other side of the Blue Ridge is even more extensive." "You are right—it is bewildering," says Sylvia, dropping the glass, "and it is folly to think of seeing such a view in one day or two days. We should remain here for a week at least." "In that case, we'd have to send for more provisions," says Rupert's voice from the rear. Then Eric rouses with a start to the consciousness that, while the sun is sloping westward, and the shadows are lengthening over all the marvelous scene, a supply of wood for the night has not been cut. The axes of the guide and Harrison are ringing down among the balsam-trees, but he is too experienced a mountaineer to trust entirely to their efforts. "Come, Rupert," he says, a little exercise will do you no harm.-Charley, if we need recruits, I'll call you." "Very good," says Charley, with resignation. Deserted thus by our instructor, we cease to ask the names of the mountain-ranges or towering peaks. It is enough to sit and watch the inexpressible beauty of the vast prospect as afternoon slowly wanes into evening. There is a sense of isolation, of solemnity and majesty, in the scene which none of us are likely to forget. So high are we elevated above the world, that the pure vault of ether over our heads seems nearer to us than the blue rolling earth, with its wooded hills and smiling valleys below. No sound comes up to us, no voice of water or note of bird breaks the stillness. We are in the region of that eternal silence which wraps the summits of the "everlasting hills." A repose that is full of awe broods over this lofty peak, which still retains the last rays of the sinking sun, while over the lower world twilight has fallen. SUSANNE GERVAZ; A MAID OF THE GÉVAUDAN. TH A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS. CHAPTER II. HE three months which elapsed between the murder of Simon Vernon and the trial of Jacques Boucard, charged with the commission of the crime, had been more than sufficient to incite wide-spread public attention; and from Alais to Mende, from Vigan to Florac, Jacques and Susanne were the constant topics. Nobody even hazarded the idea that Jacques was innocent: the interesting feature of the affair was that he had committed the murder under the effect of jealousy. What, above all, excited universal attention, was the sublime falsehood of Susanne as to her presence at her lover's on the morning of the murder, and, more than all, her splendid appearance on the occasion of the pris oner's examination —an appearance which M. Favernay had painted in vivid colors in all the drawing-rooms which he frequented. "If the jury is inflammable, and she fixes her grand eyes on them," he said, smiling, "I'll find all my eloquence thrown away!" cumstances, and the more he reflected the more he doubted the poor fellow's guilt. The young man was passionate, he might kill a rival in a sudden quarrel; but, assassinate any one?-it was impossible! As to M. de Ribière, he asked nothing better than to be convinced of the justice of his brother-inlaw's views; but M. Favernay laughed at them. What," he said, “after putting the police on the track for three months, after exploring the woods of Lespervelouse, the moors of Chadelbos, and the forest of Mercoire, as if they were hunting a hare or a fox-if, after all this, no traces of any other criminal could be found, are we to believe that Jacques Boucard is not the man? Such a view is contrary to common-sense!" M. d'Estérac was not convinced. He still believed that Jacques was innocent, and went to visit him in prison on the day before that fixed for his trial. He found him calm and sad. "You are very kind to come to see a poor fellow in trouble, sir," said Jacques. "If I was not a Christian, I would ask a favor of you." "What favor?" "To bring me something that would put an end to me before I am called to take my place on the criminal bench." "Unhappy man! You are innocent; you believe in God, and you wish to kill your. self!" "Because I feel I am lost! They tell me if I confess all, my good character may get me a pardon. But how can I say where the money is? Thank God, I do not know! Then, as to Susanne, she will be one of the witnesses. She will say again that she was with me in my house on the 28th of Novem. ber, from six to eight in the morning; and I mean still to say that her statement is false!" Why?" Why? Because I ought to think only of her now, not of myself. I am lost-lost in every way-for the whole country believes I am guilty. What would I gain by confess ing that Susanne told the truth? People would say that it was a private understanding between me and my sweetheart, and ninetynine in a hundred would still believe that I murdered Simon Vernon. They called me Jacques the water drinker-they would call: me Jacques the thief and the murderer! No, I should be dishonored, and Susanne would share my dishonor. You could not keep me as your game-keeper, sir; I should have to beg my bread. If I asked people to employ me, they would say, 'Go dig in the Priest's Inclosure!' He fell back on his pallet. "And Susanne !" he exclaimed; "if she married me, all the world would despise her; and our children-the family of Cain! Could she still continue to love me?" k "Oh, be easy as to that, Jacques; she is yours forever! Happy or unhappy, condemned or declared not guilty, absent present, living or dead, she will love you - yes, even if you had committed this crime!" One person alone interested himself in Jacques-M. d'Estérac, his employer, who was the brother-in-law of M. de Ribière, and had been absent in Corsica when the crime was committed. He knew Jacques well, Jacques seized the speaker's hand, made himself acquainted with all the cir-pressed it to his lips. A blas-body had said, "Something unfortunate is going to take place!" "You save me from despair and phemy, sir, and from the demons! They have sworn to betray me, whether you believe in them or not! Explain this to me: why is it that, if any one kills a hare or a partridge in the woods of Mercoire, he is discovered in three days; while here a man is killed, and three months afterward there are no traces of the murderer? That is magic; the assassin will not be found. "Trust in God!" said M. d'Estérac; "and now I must go. Your trial takes place tomorrow; look before you in the court-room, and you will see Susanne and myself, who still remain faithful to you." "Oh, thanks, sir-thanks!" and Jacques began to sob like a child. The trial of Jacques Boucard took place on Wednesday, the 17th of February, 1826. A great crowd had assembled from as far as Aigues-Mortes, Beaucaire, and Nimes, and every class was represented, from the highest to the lowest, ladies and peasant-girls, gentlemen and laboring-men. The women looked with avidity toward the door through which Susanne was to enter, burning to behold this young girl who had accused herself to save her lover, and the young beaux exclaimed in whisper to their fair companions: "What a lucky fellow Jacques is! I rould take his place willingly if you would Ove me as much as she does him!" M. Favernay, the prosecutor, had assumed n expression of melancholy dignity, but had ot forgotten that he was from Paris. He ore varnished boots, yellow kid-gloves, cuffuttons, a black coat, and a white cravat. "That young man will be attorney-genal before he is forty," the president of the ibunal said. We need not describe the appearance of è court-room-an aristocratic crowd, glitring in full toilet; behind them a great mass plainer people; the jury in their stall; id the president with his officials seated beand a table covered with a black cloth, on ich lay the leathern belt of the murdered Jan. Jacques was brought in under guard. He s pale and thin; his hair was in disorder, eyes were hollow from want of sleep, and tom time to time he looked vaguely at his ansel, the judge, or the crowd, where he ognized M. d'Estérac and Susanne. The lictment was then read, and the judge proeded to examine the prisoner. "Stand up, accused," he said. ir name?" "Jacques Boucard." "Your age?" "Twenty-one." "What is The examination followed, but resulted in new facts. The prisoner continued to y every thing, and the witnesses were induced. The chief of police stated the cirastances of the young man's arrest, and discovery of the belt under the lounge in house; it was passed to the jury, who, after another, examined it. Then the lry between Jacques and Simon was put evidence, the preference awarded to the er by André Gervaz, the girl's father, and scene at the Coucourde Inn, where every A murmur came from the crowd, plainly unfavorable to the prisoner. The wood-cutters who had passed the "Priest's Inclosure" were then called, and it was shown that they had reached the spot between half-past seven and eight. M. Duclos, the health-officer, then repeated his statement that the murder, in all probability, must have been committed about seven. The judge turned to Jacques. "Where were you at seven on that morning?" he said. 'In my chamber." "With Susanne Gervaz?" The murmurs redoubled. In the midst of them, M. d'Estérac was called to testify to the prisoner's previous character. His testimony was full of warmth. He had known the prisoner from his childhood, and had never found him guilty of the least discreditable action; that he was capable of murder seemed to him, M. d'Estérac, an utter impossibility. Unfortunately, this evidence had little weight. Jacques was the son of M. d'Estérac's old nurse, and the witness had been absent when the murder was committed. He sat down, and Susanne Gervaz was called. At this name a stir ran through the crowd, and every eye-glass was directed toward Susanne as she was brought in. She came forward with a mixture of tremulous dignity and grief, which made a deep impression. Her black dress defined the beauty of her figure, and accorded with the sad but proud expression of her countenance. Her sorrow was only betrayed by a black circle around her large eyes, and a slight moisture half veiling their flame. The alteration in her appearance was different from that in Jacques. He was crushed; she was aroused. Either from modesty or the fear of losing her courage, she did not look at Jacques during her whole examination. The judge said to the prisoner: "You persist in stating that on Monday, the 28th of November, 1825, at seven in the morning, you were in your chamber?" Yes, sir." the discretion of the court.' Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." "You have heard the prisoner's statement?" "Yes, sir." "On your first examination you stated that you were at Jacques Boucard's house, from six to eight in the morning, on the 28th of November-thereby proving an alibi in his favor, even by dishonoring yourself. The prisoner, however criminal, would not consent to profit by your statement: he has just reasserted that he was alone at that hour. Now, mademoiselle, you are before the jury, and on your oath. Were you present with Jacques Boucard, in the house of Jacques Boucard, on the morning of the 28th of November between the hours of six and eight?" "No, sir," replied Susanne, in a dull, low voice, but without a moment's hesitation. There was a general movement of disappointment and contempt. The audience had prepared themselves for a sublime falsehood, and the result was a vulgar truth. The judge leaned back in his chair, and the public prosecutor began his address to the jury struggling apparently under deep emotion, and carefully arranging a curl of hair on his forehead. In his vivid and impassioned periods, poor Jacques Boucard came out, trait by trait, as a bloody monster-Simon Vernon as a brave soldier and honest man, who had been foully murdered. A love-rivalry might have caused this bitter animosity resulting in assassination; and the jury had seen that the beautiful Susanne had not at first scrupled to resort to perjury to save her favorite. Now there was no longer any doubt, however, and he called upon the jury to "strike Jacques Boucard without pity, as Jacques Boucard had struck Simon Vernon!" He sank back in his seat, as though exhausted by emotion, and glanced covertly at the audience to see the effect of his oratory. The counsel for Jacques, an old lawyer of the region, then rose to address the jury -but an unfortunate incident paralyzed all his exertions. Just before the trial he had been seized by a violent cold in the head, and at every attempt which he now made to appeal to the feelings of the jury, he was interrupted by a fit of sneezing so utterly ludicrous that the crowd laughed outright, and even the better - bred portions of the audience hid their faces behind hats and fans. At last he sat down, overwhelmed with despair at the reflection that he had probably injured the accused more than he had benefited him; and the judge gravely summed up the evidence in the case. The jury then retired, and the audience awaited in deep suspense to hear their verdict. The court-room now presented a singular appearance. Night had fallen, and lights were brought which only half illumined the great room. This pale light, casting long shadows on the black robe of the judge, and the white dresses of the ladies in the audience, made them resemble fantastic apparitions. Behind was seen a confused mass of beads pressed closely together; and among these, by a strange accident, were seen the brilliantly-illumined faces of Anselme Costerousse and his man Matteo Perondi. Susanne remained pale, silent, and collected. A movement in the crowd brought M. d'Estérac near her, and he said, in a stern voice: "If Jacques is condemned, I will never forgive you!" She uttered only a vague sound. She was gazing at the faces of Costerousse and Perondi with such fixed attention that they saw the look and precipitately turned away. In half an hour the jury reappearedthe foreman holding in his hands the verdict. As to the question whether the assassination was committed by Jacques Boucard, the jury said, "Yes," without a dissenting voice. As to the question whether the crime was premeditated, "No," by a majority. All was over, and the judge proceeded to pronounce the sentence of the law, hard labor in the galleys at Toulon, for life. As he did so, Susanne, who had mingled with the crowd, kept her eyes fixed upon Anselme Costerousse and Matteo Perondi. On the return of the jury she had seen them grow suddenly pale. When the verdict was read, a quick color had replaced the pallor in their cheeks, and, leaning upon each other, their eyes had flashed with savage joy. They now disappeared in the crowd, and were not again seen. As Jacques was led away, his eyes met those of Susanne fixed upon him with greater tenderness and devotion than ever before; and he imagined that their expression was also one of mysterious encouragement. The crowd began to disperse, and M. d'Estérac had turned to go when Susanne touched him. "Can I use your influence to see Jacques, for the last time, in prison?" "I don't know-perhaps-" was the rough reply. Susanne said no more. The trial was over. Five or six days afterward M. d'Estérac sent word to Susanne that he had obtained permission for her to see Jacques in his cell, and would himself take her thither. Old André Gervaz offered no objection. He was quite crushed by the horrible fate of the man he had selected for Susanne, and began to fear that all these horrors would affect her reason, or even her life. It was early in the morning when M. d'Estérac came in a small spring-wagon to take Susanne to the prison where Jacques was confined. The road ran up and down hill all the way. It was at the end of February now, but the snow still lay upon the ground, and a fresh wind rattled the white Boughs of the shrubs, and murmured vaguely through the vales. Both were silent, and scarcely noticed the peasants who passed them, or the shepherds driving their sheep before them. When they reached the suburbs of the town, M. d'Estérac stopped at a small inn, with whose landlord he was acquainted, and, leaving the vehicle, proceeded with Susanne on foot to the prison-his object being to avoid any thing which would attract public attention to the young girl. During their ride Susanne had been enveloped in a large mantle which nearly concealed her he had now an opportunity of Soon afterward Susanne and her friend set out to return home. M. d'Estérac longed to speak to her, but she scarcely seemed aware of his presence. When he uttered some commonplace words she did not answer him. Wrapped in her mantle, with her head droop scanning her appearance. She was in deep mourning. Her beauty had assumed a singular character, resembling those flitting | lights seen sometimes in the dead of night. A mysterious expression of suffering due to her secret thoughts characterized her. Her companion looked at her with admirationing upon her breast, and her eyes half closed, mingled with a vague disquiet. All at once she stopped and said to him in a firm voice: "The other day, at the trial, you thought I was cowardly-did you not? You expected more from me?" "But-falsehood is wrong-and-perhaps you did well not to persist in it," he said, in some embarrassment. "Falsehood! Oh, yes, that was it!" was her bitter reply. "You heard the law which the judge read aloud to me?" Yes, imprisonment, or even five years of hard labor, if you were convicted of perjury." "And as Jacques would not confess-as he would not have it said that I was in his chamber at an hour when an honest girl-" "You would not risk it?". "I!" she cried, "not risk it? I would be prosecuted, condemned, and punished for the sake of Jacques! But who then would be free to act for him?" The girl looked him straight in the face; her large black eyes flashed. "Ah! you think perhaps that all is over for Jacques-and God, what has become of him? We deserved to be punished. I disobeyed my father-I loved Jacques too much -I sacrificed my reputation to save him-I braved scandal-and he, too, was wrong. He hated Simon, and hate leads to acts of violence to murder. We are humbled, broken, crushed-it is all right! But God is yonder," she said, pointing upward, “and I am here!" She stamped her foot violently as she uttered these words. M. d'Estérac looked sadly at her, murmuring: "Poor child! She is going crazy!" But there was no madness in her expression, and he took her hand, saying as he did so : "Come on! Jacques must see you and hear you. You will give him courage. A man need never despair as long as a woman loves him as you love him.". They hastened on and soon reached the prison, when Susanne was introduced into the cell occupied by the prisoner. M. d'Estérac, from sentiments of delicacy, did not follow her, and passed an hour in conversation with the keeper. At the end of that time the latter drew out his watch, and said that the rules did not permit a longer interview-it was even a kindness not to allow it to continue longer. "Yes," said M. d'Estérac, "and we must return to-night." He entered the cell and saw before him a touching spectacle. Jacques, pale and thin, was kneeling before Susanne, holding both her hands in his. His eyes streamed with tears, but a new hope was visible in them. The girl's expression was full of courage and hope. "Farewell," she said to him; "the rest is my business. I am ready, M. d'Estérac." Their parting was a calm and silent one. she remained motionless in the depths of the vehicle. Night drew near when they were still at some distance from Villefort, and already a few stars began to twinkle in the frosty sky. At the point at which they had now reached they mounted a steep acclivity overhung by rocks which rose like the steps of an amphitheatre to the crests of the Margeride. M. d'Estérac halted to allow his horse to take breath. As he did so, Susanne leaped out of the vehicle and ran toward the mountain. "Where are you going?" he exclaimed, anxiously. "Come back and get in again! We have still a good way to go!" She turned toward him, looked at him fixedly, and ran away with a sudden burst of laughter. In the twilight he could see in her face the indications of mental alienation. "Susanne! Susanne!" he cried. "Oh! pray come back!" She was already twenty paces distant from him, leaping from rock to rock. "Susanne! you must not leave me thus! I promised your father to bring you back to night!" The only reply was to turn round and make him a low courtesy, singing as she did so, in a ringing voice, a well-known song of the Cevennes : "Aquélés mountagnos què tan haofite sounn They will not let me see my lover!" M. d'Estérac made a last appeal. Su sanne had already disappeared in the clumps of junipers and oaks. The song came to him now like an echo or a murmur: "This mourning-veil I drag along, My days and nights it shadows over; I cannot see beyond my pain It will not let me see my lover!" Ah, poor, poor child! I was afraid of this! I had something like a presentiment It was more than her reason could bear. She has gone mad!" And, far in the distance, from beyond the rocks and ferns, came, like the breath of the night-wind or the voice of some fairy, the last verse of the song: "I hear the ocean in my dreams, I cannot see beyond the strand- "Ces montagnes où sur l'abîme |